


bliss, poolside

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Body Hair Appreciation, Level of horniness: maximum, M/M, Pool Boy AU, Pool Boy!Crowley, Semi-Public Sex If You Squint, Shameless Smut, Vacation, a hint of erotic wound care, a hint of fucking while pining, crowley talks to plants AND animals, idiots to lovers, indulgent descriptions of summertime bliss, synchronised swimmer!Crowley, the inherent eroticism of cleaning a pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Some snakes are ambi… amphe…. Both land and water,” Aziraphale added sagely.“Don’t worry, they won’t come into the pool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”“That is not what I’m worried about, thank you very much.”“So why don’t you come in then?” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively even though his tone was entirely serious.----Aziraphale, a writer who takes himself very seriously, goes to spend the summer at his sister's mansion as he tries to focus on completing a draft of his next book. Much to his surprise, he finds great distraction in the form of a handsome groundskeeper with remarkable skills in the water.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Background Harriet/Anathema
Comments: 94
Kudos: 280
Collections: Anonymous





	1. the meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the basic premise of this story was inspired directly by a feral discussion a while back in the GO-Events discord sever. No harm was meant in taking it and running with it, and I hope that many more people will write the horny pool content they wish to see in the world.  
> (The only reason this will remain anonymous is that I don't post smut on main ;))

When a pipe burst in Aziraphale's Soho flat, right at the moment that he'd nearly finished editing a chapter of his book, he was more than a little miffed. It was the last straw, one could say. Not only was the plumbing in the flat a horrid wreck, but the building did not provide a central air conditioning system (it could hardly be expected in London, despite the fact that it often reached unpleasantly high temperatures). Staying there for the remainder of the summer while he eked out a manuscript he was rather tired of working on, was simply out of the question at this point.

Aziraphale put in a complaint with the landlord and packed his suitcase for his sister's place in Oxfordshire. He generally avoided visiting Harriet, even though she did have an enormous manor house thanks to her husband's career as an ambassador of some such. Aziraphale mainly saw his sister at larger family gatherings at their parents’ home, and not so much for casual visits.

Aziraphale of course did not mind nice things, like the vast space behind Harriet’s house and how they had a delivery from the local bakery right to their doorstep in the mornings. It was the Dowling’s son, Warlock, that was the main deterrent. To put it mildly, the boy was a right pain in the arse. Not to mention the slobbery pets they kept and _allowed_ into any room in the house the animals fancied.

The plus side, however, was that the place was truly massive. An Edwardian style old house, with plenty of spare bedrooms and little nooks where one could stay far away from company. Add to that the grounds (the veranda, a small orchard, a flower garden adjacent to the well-sized pool, even a small jacuzzi), and Aziraphale could probably manage to go the whole day without having to run into any family members or staff. This was certainly what he hoped he’d be able to do in the following weeks.

On the train ride up, he tried to tinker with a problem area in a chapter that was meant to be approaching the climax of his novel, but he couldn't concentrate. There was a loud family seated across the aisle from him, and the conductor kept on making unnecessary announcements over the intercom. He resigned himself to staring out the window and sipping a sub-par coffee until the train reached his stop.

The Dowlings had kindly sent their chauffeur to meet Aziraphale at the station. "Lovely weather, isn't it?" said Aziraphale by way of polite conversation, although the driver did not seem very keen on it. They soon pulled into the drive, an enormous purple house looming behind perfectly sculpted shrubs.

Aziraphale hadn't been to visit for a long time now...he struggled to remember. Yes, Warlock's fifth birthday it must have been. He had no idea how old the child was now, but he was certainly over five years. He heard distant playful shouts coming from the direction of the pool deck as he walked up the polished steps and into the entrance hall.

"Aziraphale!" greeted his sister, pattering down the wide staircase in flip-flops and a flowing poolside gown. "It's been so long, I'm so glad you decided to spend some time up here. Would you like the green room, the sun room, the coral room? All of them are made up and ready to use."

Aziraphale couldn't remember what room he'd stayed in the last visit, but he did recall it having excellent light. "Harriet, thank you so much for having me. I think the sun room would be splendid."

Later, after enjoying a rejuvenating bath in the luxury bathroom adjoined to his room, Aziraphale relished the softness of the sheets. He already had three separate ideas for the problem he was encountering in his book chapter, and the bed seemed like the perfect place to get down to business.

* * *

The room certainly lived up to its name. At 5:15 am, a ray of fresh sunlight hit Aziraphale’s face and woke him from his slumbers. There was complete silence throughout the house, unlike the noisy background noise that floated through his windows in London no matter the time of day. Here he could hear some birds chirping, and that was all.

Feeling like an old silly for not taking advantage of this perfectly good holiday home more often, Aziraphale arose with big plans for a productive yet still restful day. He’d have a tranquil breakfast out on the veranda, then take a stroll through the orchard. Then, if it was still sunny, he’d find a chaise longue out by the pool and set about editing the hardcopy version of his book. After lunch, he could work at the open desk in his bedroom that looked out into the garden. Before he knew it, it would be time for cocktails back out on the veranda.

He familiarized himself with the kitchen easily, brewing a cup of French roast to go with the morning paper and fresh croissant delivered at 6am. The chairs and table out on the veranda were made of wood, but the nicely varnished kind that would never produce a splinter. Aziraphale sat very comfortably at one end of the table, positioned so he could see the birdfeeder and the path leading from a small fishpond to the gate to the pool.

The croissant was marvellous–flaky and rich with buttery flavour, the perfect balance to the bitterness of the coffee. The flakes stayed on his lips until he licked them away, relishing every single bite. He turned the page of the paper and got a greasy smudge on its corner.

By 6:30, it still seemed that no one else in the house was up, including the dogs. That suited Aziraphale just fine. He washed his mug and plate, then went out the back door to the garden. The temperature was perfect for what he was wearing—trousers, a woolly cardigan atop a cream-coloured shirt. There were still droplets of dew on the closely cropped grass, and he held up his trousers so as not to get the hems too wet.

The garden was exquisitely kept. He expected nothing less from such a household, but he was still surprised by the attention to detail, the utter care that was clearly given to each and every plant. Aziraphale knew nothing of flora and fauna, but that didn’t stop him from admiring the ways the flowers sprouted so abundantly from their beds, how the trellis was covered with just the right number of vines.

In the orchard, there were several kinds of fruit trees. None of them bore fruit ripe enough for Aziraphale to be able to identify them, but the branches were replete with small green spheres, waiting to swell into something surely scrumptious. Aziraphale walked the perimeter of the orchard, then made his way back towards the house. Passing by the pool, he could see over the fence clear blue water as a perfectly undisturbed sheet, rimmed with off-white cement. As he’d hoped, there was quite an assortment of comfortable-looking lounge chairs ready for his choosing.

Once he’d crept carefully through the house to retrieve his manuscript and a soon-to-be-necessary tube of sun cream, Aziraphale opened the latch of the gate leading to the pool. It was simply like paradise, he thought to himself as he selected chaise longue with a floral cover. No one to bother him, the faint smell of freshly cut grass and chlorine mixing in the morning air. The only thing bothering him was the fact that he had no hat or glasses to protect his face from the glare of the sun—tomorrow, he’d be sure to run out and equip himself with the correct attire.

It was 8am by the time Aziraphale took his red editing pen in hand and began to work in earnest. He removed his cardigan, but it wasn’t warm enough for him to start sweating, which was all for the better because despite the fact that he’d seen no one all morning, he’d rather not expose his bare torso if he could help it. He despised beaches for that very reason—warm weather and the presence of sand didn’t make him any less uncomfortable with taking his clothes off in public.

After a solid 25 minutes reading, he decided that a little break was in order. He rested the hefty manuscript on his thighs and laid back into the chair, reclining it so he was almost parallel with the ground. Eyes closed, Aziraphale relished the warmth of the sunlight, the very light breeze that tickled at his unruly hair. He clasped his hands together across his stomach, taking deep, relaxed breaths that, he felt sure, soothed his entire soul.

* * *

Not more than five minutes could have gone by before, all of a sudden, a jarring noise sounded from the gate to the pool. A wave of disappointment hit Aziraphale—he’d hoped Warlock was a child who enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in very late during the summer holidays, not one of those early risers with high energy at the top of the day.

He kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer, extending his small moment of privacy just a little bit before he had to give up this prime location and find somewhere else quiet to work. The gate had been thrown open violently, ricocheting off the fence and making quite a racket as the intruder stomped across the pool deck. The steps sounded much heavier than those of an 8-to-14-year-old.

Aziraphale opened his eyes partially to cast a glimpse. His eyes immediately jumped from tiny slits to enormous round disks at what he saw. This was no member of his family who had waltzed into the pool area. It was a tall, lean man in shorts shorter than the average man would wear (Aziraphale, for one, would never wear shorts, so any pair of shorts was _too short_ in his worldview). On his feet were laced work boots, and between those and the hem of his shorts, were a pair of long knobby legs, covered with a dusting of light auburn hair.

His upper half was partially covered with a loose vest, that looked like it had probably once been a baggy T-Shirt with the sleeves now chopped off. Swinging from a lanky arm was a small box of some sort. The hair on his head, also red but darker than his body hair, was held back with both a headband and a hair bobble, a small bun positioned at the top of his head.

The man walked clumsily over to the side of the pool, folding himself down into a kneeling position, which looked rather painful given the cement ledge. He pulled out a small plastic container from the box and made to dip it into the pool when suddenly he froze. Slowly lifting his head, the man, who was wearing sunglasses, met Azirphale’s gaze from across the pool. It only lasted a second because, as the man was inclined forward ever so slightly, he was forced to make a sudden movement to prevent himself from falling head-first into the water.

The man only succeeded in part. He managed to grab the side of the pool as he tipped forward, but ended up ungracefully twisted with his rear end in the water, his boots still locked on the ground in an attempt to pull his body upright. There were a few chaotic splashes as he hoisted himself back up, now with a wet bum and an altogether flustered expression on his face.

Straightening his glasses which had been knocked askew, the man stood up and cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here.” He spoke in a clear sort of lilting voice, which Aziraphale found very pleasant.

“Oh, not at all,” Aziraphale hastened to answer. “I’ve only just arrived, I’m not familiar with… the customs of the household. Do carry on, I can move elsewhere if you have duties to perform here.”

“No—that’s alright, you just startled me is all. I’ve only got to check the pH of the pool water, then I’ll be in the gardens until mid-afternoon.”

“Of course. So sorry to startle you.” Aziraphale readjusted the back of the chair so it was at a greater angle from the ground. “And you are…?”

The man, having regained most of his composure, smiled slightly. “Crowley. I’m in charge of the grounds here, including the pool.”

“Lovely to meet you, Crowley. I’m Aziraphale, Harriet’s brother. I’ve just come up for the summer holiday.”

Crowley nodded. “Great place for a vacation,” he said, bending down more carefully to plunge his arm deep into the water to fill the small container. Then he took out another tube and added drops from it into the first container. He held up the container of water to some sort of scale, made a face, and started lumbering back towards where he came from. “Enjoy the day,” he said in Aziraphale’s direction as he approached the gate. “It’s going to be a hot one.”

“Yes, same to you,” Aziraphale managed to blurt out before the man had disappeared. His nimble frame was visible on the other side of the fence, walking towards a small shed adjacent to the garden.

* * *

The short interaction with the groundskeeper was disruptive to say the least. From Aziraphale’s spot by the pool, he could see the top of Crowley’s head as he crouched, weeding the garden. As the sun rose higher in the sky, he’d put on a wide-brimmed hat to protect himself, covering up his hair and face. Aziraphale continued to read his manuscript, but at a much slower pace since every minute or so he’d glance up to see if Crowley was still there.

He was sorely tempted to go talk to the man, and he might very well have done so if he had the faintest idea what to talk about. Eventually, Harriet came outside and Aziraphale could hear her asking Crowley about the flower beds out front, if he’d be able to get to them in the afternoon. She then joined Aziraphale on the deck, equipped with an iced coffee and an inflatable pool raft.

Since Crowley had unceremoniously fallen halfway into the pool, the water had returned to a perfect stillness. As Harriet pushed herself off on the raft, ripples disturbed the surface of the water.

“Enjoying yourself, Az?”

“Very much so. I’d forgotten how lovely the grounds are here.”

“Ah, well that’s because the last time you visited, we didn’t have Anthony doing the groundskeeping yet,” Harriet said from behind her large, bug-ish glasses.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale hoped that Anthony was simply Crowley’s first name, and not a completely different person who Crowley was standing in for temporarily.

“Works miracles with the plants. Have you met him yet? He’s out in the flower garden now.”

“Oh, yes I have met him. Does he come here often?”

“Every other day, although now that it’s getting warmer, he comes a little more often. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Aziraphale glanced again towards the gardens and saw Crowley stand up and remove his hat to wipe his brow with his forearm. He replaced the hat and propped his hands on his hips as he looked around. He looked like he could use a glass of water. And perhaps a break.

Aziraphale felt his stomach rumble. He was getting quite hungry and could use a drink of water himself. He gathered up his things and left the pool. On the way back to the house, he paused by the garden to admire (both the flowers _and_ the man tending to the flowers). Crowley looked up and waved with a gloved hand.

“The gardens are beautiful,” Aziraphale called across the fence. “Would you like anything from indoors? A drink or a snack, perhaps?”

“No thank you, I’m all set,” came the reply.

Back indoors, Warlock was using up the majority of the kitchen space to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to take to a friend’s house. Aziraphale hastened to make himself a cup of tea and slice some cheese and bread to take out to the front porch. He intended to get a little more work done out there in one of the wicker chairs, without the sun beating down directly on him. And if he was distracted at some point by someone gardening in the front yard, then so be it. He had no set schedule—he could just as well spend the evenings working if there were other ways to occupy himself during the day. This was a vacation, after all.

Just as soon as Aziraphale had settled comfortably on the porch, a distant cloud had approached very ominously, casting a dark shadow over the house and garden. In an instant, sheets of rain were hurtling down at break-neck speed. Aziraphale grabbed his papers to stop them from getting wet and moved his chair as far from the railing as possible.

Down the drive came the sound of heavy footsteps, splashing in the puddles that had already formed. Aziraphale watched as Crowley made a mad bolt for a black car parked out front, holding a dark jacket above his head. His shorts were already soaked through, back to the dark brown colour they had been after his fall into the pool. His shirt was too dark to change colour with the rain, but now it clung to his narrow back, revealing the way his spine ran between the bony shoulder blades. Before Aziraphale knew it, Crowley had slid into the car and driven off down the road with a screech.

Oh dear, thought Aziraphale. He thought about Crowley’s long arms, the biceps glistening with the effect of the rain. His legs too, the hair damp and clinging to the skin, making the muscles more visible.

This was quickly becoming an unhealthy infatuation.


	2. come into the water

The stormy afternoon and evening gave way to a cloudy but calm early morning, allowing Aziraphale to sleep in til 6:30. With the night of rest, he’d nearly forgotten about his brief acquaintance with Anthony Crowley the day before. It was not until he was downstairs in the kitchen, brewing coffee, that he remembered it all with a jolt.

The kitchen window looked out to the back of the house, providing a perfect view to the garden and the tool shed that flanked the pool. The door to the shed was being held open with a bottom—there was no other way to describe it.

Crowley was backing out of the shed, bum first, as he lugged a very heavy bag of something out the door. He was wearing a different pair of shorts today—they looked like some athletic uniform, perhaps the sort worn for football. They hugged his bottom very nicely, and the hem reached a little lower on his thigh although they were still quite far above the knee.

It took Crowley a while to wrestle the bag out into the grass—it must have been some very heavy mulch, or a particularly dense kind of soil. Once he got it out of the shed, he bent down and attempted to pick it all the way up, lifting from the knees. When that didn’t work, he straightened again before taking the side of the bag and pulling it unceremoniously over to a flower bed.

Aziraphale watched with rapt attention, fully appreciating the effort Crowley’s arms and legs were putting into the task. He had to tear his eyes away, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment at his wanton habit of staring at the man from afar as if he was some sort of television advert that was particularly enticing. He took his breakfast up to his room in an attempt to make sure he got some work done before he went outside and inevitably got distracted.

After transposing some of his edits from the day before onto his computer, Aziraphale thought that he deserved a break. The sun had broken through the sky of clouds, and the heat had returned. Aziraphale encountered no one on his way down to the pool, stopping first for a snack from the kitchen. He settled into the same comfortable deck chair and closed his eyes.

Not soon after, the gate opened and Aziraphale was secretly thrilled to see that it was Crowley. He was carrying a towel, goggles, and a long foam noodle. Trailing behind him was an eager Warlock, already down to his swimsuit and making a beeline for the water.

Crowley turned his head to greet Aziraphale with a nod. “Hello. You don’t mind if we do our swimming lesson, do you?”

“Swimming lesson?” echoed Aziraphale hopelessly.

Warlock, who had cannonballed into the water and emerged with his long black hair plastered across his forehead, came to the edge of the pool in a flurry of excitement. “Crowley used to be an Olympic swimmer!”

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley incredulously. The man sheepishly shrugged his shoulders as he deposited the towel on a nearby chair. “Well, I was on the national synchronised swimming team, briefly. Didn’t quite make it to the Olympics.”

Aziraphale found himself quite stunned. He had many questions, but at that moment all he could manage to say was, “Wow.”

“So, I’ve been giving Warlock here lessons for the past few summers. We’ll try not to splash too much.”

“Yes. Carry on. I’m not bothered.”

Aziraphale remained glued to his chair, which was close enough to the edge of the pool that he conceivably could get splashed, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to move. His state of immobility was not helped by what Crowley proceeded to do, not five feet away from him.

Obviously, he couldn’t very well swim with his clothes on, even if what he was wearing wasn’t very much.

The first to go was his grey T-Shirt, shucked easily from his lean frame. With his back turned to Aziraphale, all that was visible was a very bony expanse of skin. His arms were fractionally more bronzed than the rest of his torso, which was scattered with freckles.

Aziraphale willed himself to glance away as the man shed his athletic shorts. His mind was providing scandalous images of what his bare backside would look like from this angle, even though he knew that rationally Crowley would not be conducting a swimming lesson in the nude. When he deemed it safe to look again, Crowley had turned around and was fitting a pair of dark goggles over his eyes.

His swimming trunks were so tight, they left little to the imagination. Of _course_ he wore the European model of swimwear, those small triangles with minimal coverage. He might as well be naked, really.

Aziraphale was extremely grateful that he’d found a spare pair of sunglasses lying around. Hopefully Crowley was completely unaware that the blush on his cheeks was not only because of exposure to the sun, but mainly due to the fact that he physically could not tear his eyes away from the way Crowley’s hips looked in those trunks. He was all skin and bones, except for a tiny little pillow of belly that sat right above the waistline of the speedo. There was a hint of hair there as well, that matched the colour of the hair covering his pectoral muscles.

As Aziraphale’s brain experienced a short-circuit of a proportion he hadn’t had in years, Crowley walked to the far end of the pool and dove neatly into the water. He slipped in effortlessly, seemingly without disturbing the surface of the water at all. Just below the surface, he glided sleekly, body stretched to its full length and undulating to propel him forward in an endless streamlined crawl.

Finally, he emerged at the shallow end of the pool as easily as he had entered. Standing up at full height, the water only just came to his waist, leaving his entire drenched torso on display. From his neck and shoulders streamed rivulets of water that were stopped by the waistband of his swimming trunks. He raised his hands to his hair, now dark and dripping, to smooth it down on the top of his head.

Aziraphale was overtaken by a surge of some feeling bordering very close to arousal. He didn’t want to leave, not by any means, but he thought that it was for the best to give himself a chance to set his mind straight. It would not do to be mooning over an employee of the house, practically drooling every time he did any perfectly normal action.

“Are you both wearing sunscreen? The sun can be deceivingly strong, especially when you’re in the water.”

Crowley removed his dark goggles up to his forehead and wiped his eyes. The lashes bunched together once they got wet, accentuating his eyes beautifully. “That’s a very valid point, Aziraphale. Warlock, did your mum get you all sunscreened up before you came out here?”

Warlock, from the other end of the pool, said, “No, she’s with Anathema today.” He plunged back under the water with a splash.

Crowley looked back up at Aziraphale. Before he could consider climbing out of the pool, Aziraphale stood up from his chair. “I’m happy to go into the house and fetch some for you. Won’t be a mo.” He smiled tightly and hastened his way back to the house.

* * *

Slightly out of breath from climbing all the stairs, Aziraphale rummaged around the clutter that had already gathered on his dresser for a tube of sun cream. He made a pit stop in the bathroom to inspect his face, assess how flushed it looked and if it was worse than was warranted for simply sitting in the sun. On his way out of the room, he grabbed a book to read just in case he was in need of a shield for his face.

As Aziraphale descended the steps, running his fingers along the polished banister, he paused abruptly when he heard a sound. The house was generally quiet, except for the occasional bark of one of the golden labs. Aziraphale swore he’d heard a sound that could not possibly be a dog—dogs didn’t moan breathily as far as he knew. He perked his ears to listen closer and immediately regretted it.

From behind a door on the upper level of the house, the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking resounded. As soon as Aziraphale realised what he was overhearing, he scrambled down the stairs as fast as he could before he heard another whimper that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, belonged to his sister.

The odd thing was (and this was not something Aziraphale wished to involve himself in), that Harriet’s husband was not home. Thaddeus had gone away on a business trip. Therefore, unless Harriet was pleasuring herself _very_ loudly, his sister was having an affair. And with a woman, it would seem.

This was none of his business. Aziraphale was not a judging sort; if anything, it didn’t surprise him that Harriet’s marriage with Thaddeus might not be a happy one. Harriet had always been blunt about the fact that she intended to marry for money and not necessarily for love. Perhaps they had one of those open marriages, wherein each member agreed that sleeping with other people was completely acceptable.

He’d completely forgotten about whatever Harriet was up to by the time he returned to the pool deck. Crowley and Warlock were ruthlessly splashing each other, skimming the surface with their arms to send violent waves of water. Crowley stopped abruptly as soon as Aziraphale latched the gate. “I have the sun cream, in case anyone was concerned for the health of their skin!”

Crowley had to drag Warlock out of the pool and wrestle him with a towel so they could apply the cream. Warlock returned the favour by climbing onto the nearest chair and slathering cream onto Crowley’s back while he got his chest himself. Aziraphale tried his best to avert his eyes from the way his hands slid over his collar bones, his visible ribs, the flatness of his stomach. Instead, he struggled to make conversation.

“So, with the heavy rain yesterday… did that do any damage to the pool water?”

“Yeah, it does. Messes with the alkalinity of the water, gets all sorts of things in the pool that shouldn’t be there. After a storm I have to come in and pump out excess water, clean it, filter it, then adjust the chemicals depending on how skewed the pH levels are. No biggie.”

“That sounds quite taxing,” Aziraphale marvelled as he watched Crowley try to rub in the cream on his back that Warlock hadn’t been diligent enough with. His fingers itched to massage it into the skin himself.

“It’s what I’m paid to do. Plus, nothing beats a nice clean pool, right Warlock?”

The boy was already back in the water, his enthusiasm palpable.

“Are you coming in, Uncle Az?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I’ll just watch, if that’s alright.” Aziraphale settled onto the floral chaise longue, which was becoming his own personal spot on the deck.

Crowley dove delicately back into the pool. It was like he was some sort of amphibious creature, deftly moving between land and water without any of the inelegance that most people had. Aziraphale baulked to think how he would look, clambering gingerly in and out of the pool, grasping the railing for support, making an utter tit of himself.

He attempted to lend his attention to his book, a perfect poolside read, but was routinely distracted. Either by the soft way Crowley was explaining different strokes to Warlock, or the occasional flick of water that reached his feet. He found he was hardly annoyed by it.

* * *

Over the fence appeared a woman in a floppy hat and sleeveless top who waved. Her shoulder-length hair was thick and black, and swept elegantly over her tan shoulders. “Hello Warlock! Crowley!” Her smile was restrained but warm, nonetheless.

“Anathema, look at the new dive I just learned!” Warlock performed an odd sort of flip in the water before even making sure that his audience was ready. “Did you see?” he called as he emerged, triumphant.

“I’m very impressed, Warlock.” The woman leaned against the top of the fence, bangles clanging against the ridge. “I’d love to come in for a dip, but I’ve got work to do. Maybe see you at the pool party next week?”

Aziraphale, who felt pretty sure that the woman had not spotted him in the corner of the deck, had not realised that there was a pool party on the horizon.

Crowley and Warlock enthusiastically waved goodbye before finally returning to dry land, clearly ravenous with hunger. Aziraphale buried his nose in his book until he was certain that Crowley had his clothes back on, although now that he had seen his naked torso, the damage was already done. He’d be imagining it for weeks to come.

“Who was that lady?” he asked, “and what pool party was she talking about?”

“That was Anathema Device. She’s an interior decorator, I think she did the redecoration on the house.” Crowley towled his hair vigorously, leaving it a tangled mess, but no longer dripping. “And the pool party—I think that’s planned for when Mr. Dowling comes back from his trip. Did you not know?”

“No,” said Aziraphale wryly. “My sister and I aren’t the best communicators…”

* * *

Aziraphale soon learned that Harriet was most definitely having an affair with Anathema. Aziraphale ran into her no less than two more times that week, and she never looked as if she was in the middle of decorating, or designing, or whatever it was that she was meant to do.

The plus side to knowing that Harriet was sleeping with her interior decorator, was that he was much more reassured that his sudden infatuation with Crowley, the pool man/gardener, was not all that ridiculous. It didn’t help that Crowley was continuously giving him what he imagined were saucy looks and begging him to get in the pool.

One afternoon, Crowley even offered to help Aziraphale apply sunscreen, and Aziraphale almost obliged him even though he’d already put on sunscreen and was adamantly opposed to removing his shirt no matter how hot it was. The thought of the man’s hands on his skin, perhaps dipping his fingers just under his waistband, sent shivers up and down Aziraphale’s spine.

Aziraphale had also wound up accompanying Crowley and Warlock to the local ice cream parlour at the end of the street, because Crowley had been very convincing in his endorsement of the flavour selection.

Tracy’s Ineffable Ice Creamery carried every flavour known to man—sweet corn, olive oil (disgusting—Aziraphale had sampled it out of curiosity and felt like he was tasting spaghetti rather than a delicious dessert), tiramisu, peanut-butter-triple-chocolate-pecan, pistachio, bubble gum. The list went on.

More so than the task of choosing three flavours that would go together on a cone, Aziraphale was tortured by the ordeal of having to watch Crowley eat his ice cream. Crowley had opted for only two scoops, like a chump, and struggled to keep up with it before the ice cream started to melt onto his fingers. Despite the fact that Crowley appeared to be unhinging his jaw in order to swipe his long tongue across the scoop of ice cream, half of it ended up coating his wrists and forearms.

Aziraphale tutted quietly but did not offer to help. He would have blushed at the image his brain would immediately provide him—grabbing Crowley’s arm and carefully licking his skin clean, sucking on his lean fingers and -

“So, what kind of books do you write?” His eyes conveyed a genuine interest, a hunger that would not be satiated by an ice cream cone.

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale said between licks of his espresso ice cream, “stories. About the past.” He cleared his throat. “Historical fiction.”

These days, Aziraphale felt he was writing fiction at an historically slow pace more than anything else. He reserved the mornings for writing, mostly at the desk in his room or else he’d get distracted (by Crowley). But by the afternoon, he’d usually give up on getting any work done.

Crowley liked to spend the afternoons by the pool, after he’d got most of the strenuous work out of the way, and he liked it even more it seemed if Aziraphale was nearby. He took great pleasure in tempting Aziraphale to get in the pool—bragging about how clean he kept it, how it was the perfect temperature, how it would make his skin softer than it already was.

It was _almost_ enough to pry Aziraphale out of his protective covering. To get him to shed his layers and scrounge around his suitcase for his one pair of swimming trunks, a horrible tartan print that accentuated the roundness of his bottom.

But not quite.

He was too embarrassed, especially when Crowley was sat there topless, his lithe frame casting angular shadows onto the deck.

If any part of him thought that Crowley actually wanted to see him like that, Aziraphale might have given into the constant prodding. But Crowley was clearly joking around—there was no way he was really interested in anything Aziraphale had to offer.

* * *

One evening, the Dowlings had a dinner invitation at the Young’s, leaving the house completely empty for the evening.

Aziraphale had got into the habit of snacking throughout the day rather than eating meals at precise times. He did something a little different every night. This evening, he happened to be chatting idly with Crowley when Harriet and Warlock left for dinner.

“Are you hungry?” Aziraphale said, feeling peckish himself. “I think I’ll bring some hors d’oeuvres out to the deck. Maybe a bottle of wine. Would you care to join me?”

Crowley nodded immediately in agreement.

In the kitchen, Aziraphale hastily assembled a platter of caprese salad, slices of bread, a bowl of Mediterranean olives. The wine selection was vast and caused him a great deal of indecision, but he ultimately settled on a Sauvignon Blanc.

He balanced everything on a tray, constantly fearful that any of the precious goods would tumble to the ground, and teetered out to the pool deck.

Crowley was draped over one of the lounge chairs in a perfect picture of relaxation. Everything about him looked serene, Aziraphale almost didn’t want to disturb him.

He set down the tray on a table and poured two generous glasses of wine. As the sun steadily sank below the silhouette of the trees, the level of the wine bottle dropped at a similar rate, and Crowley and Aziraphale got into a heated discussion about snakes.

“They’re not all bad,” Crowley gestured from his position in the shallow end of the pool. He seemed incapable of spending any length of time without getting in the water, and had slipped in as soon as he’d nibbled at his fill of bread and olives.

“But you’re a _gardener,_ how can you say that! Don’t they ruin the plants and the soil?”

“Not at all, if anything they make my job easier. Snakes eat nasty insects and rodents, and that way I don’t have to spray anything harmful.” Crowley set his empty wine glass on the ledge and floated out to the centre of the pool.

“Some of them are ambi… amphe…. Both land and water,” Aziraphale added sagely.

“Don’t worry, they won’t come into the pool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That is _not_ what I’m worried about, thank you very much.”

“So why don’t you come in then?” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively even though his tone was entirely serious.

It was a warm evening. And Aziraphale had had two glasses of wine. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone upstairs, changed his trousers for his swimming trunks, put on his only pair of sandals, and grabbed a downy towel for when he got out.

When he got back to the pool, he felt less sure. He began by simply sitting on the edge and submerging his feet and calves in the cool, calm water. Crowley watched him, motionless, from the other side of the pool.

Slowly, with gentle movements of his arms, Crowley swam closer to where Aziraphale was swishing his feet in the water. He hadn’t gotten his hair wet, except for the tips that swayed drunkenly in the water with each stroke.

Aziraphale felt silly watching him, but he wasn’t sure that he would feel any better joining him in the pool. His shirt was still on, and Crowley’s eyes were fixed too intently on him for Aziraphale to feel comfortable removing it.

“Where did you learn how to swim?” he asked, hopeful that a conversation would distract him from the way his heart was beating a mile a minute.

“Boarding school,” said Crowley, with no sign of wanting to elaborate.

“And the synchronised swimming… was it hard to learn?”

Crowley shrugged, or seemed to. It was dark enough now that the underwater lights were providing the main source of light, shining up through the water with a mystical luminescence.

“The eggbeater kick was probably one of the hardest bits.”

“The eggbeater…?” Crowley was dangerously close now, looking almost as if he was waiting for permission to touch Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale hardly dared to breath.

“Yeah, it’s a way of treading water without using your hands. And you can add a fancy kick to that and boost your whole body out of the water, using only your legs.”

“That seems…impossible.” Aziraphale had unconsciously allowed his legs to fall apart slightly. As soon as he realised this, he harboured a hope that perhaps Crowley would take that as an invitation to rest his arms on Aziraphale’s knees and tread water between them.

“I could show you, if you like.” Crowley looked up at him almost nervously, the whites of his eyes holding his light brown irises in a perfect almond shape.

Aziraphale nodded, unable to say anything.

Crowley took a deep breath, then lifted his arms out of the water, above his head. His body moved in the water as his feet did some wide rotating kicks below him, but other than that, he remained relatively still.

Aziraphale, still at a loss for words, reminded himself to let go of the breath he’d been holding. He felt his body tilt slightly more towards the water, towards Crowley.

Within seconds, Crowley returned his hands to the water and swam closer to Aziraphale in one fell swoop. One hand hooked on top of Aziraphale’s knee, aiding him in pulling himself up between Aziraphale’s legs.

Their lips met with surprisingly little urgency, given the almost magnetic motion with which Crowley had come towards him, as if summoned. The first kiss was chaste, and they each pulled back slightly to make eye contact before Aziraphale leaned back in, his lips parted and eyes fluttered closed.

Aziraphale felt as if suddenly, nothing else mattered, nothing else registered in his mind besides the wondrous feeling of Crowley’s warm lips against his. The humming of evening insects faded into the background, he stopped thinking about how prune-y his toes were getting after so long soaking in the water. He didn’t mind that in Crowley’s attempt to pull him closer, he was dripping water on Aziraphale’s swimming trunks and getting his shirt wet.

Aziraphale held him steady, bracketed between his legs, as Crowley’s hand travelled up to cradle the back of his head. He allowed himself to be pulled in closer to Crowley’s eager mouth, but soon started to feel the strain from curving his body downwards. He wanted to be closer, to be able to feel the sleekness of Crowley’s torso against his own, and this angle was not allowing for that in the least.

He withdrew slightly, to which Crowley responded with a dismayed moan. Without a thought for how uncomfortable it might be, Aziraphale wriggled his body off the ledge and into the pool, where Crowley was waiting for him impatiently.

The water was cooler than he expected; his legs and feet had gotten used to the temperature, but the rest of his body was not prepared. Aziraphale gasped as his shirt became entirely wet and the cold water enveloped him completely. His toes _just_ touched the bottom of the pool.

Crowley’s mouth latched onto his, a welcome warmth. Now it was Aziraphale’s body that was bracketed between Crowley’s arms, both hands braced against the wall of the pool. Aziraphale’s hands reached for Crowley’s hair, the tips still damp against the nape of his neck. He tilted his head and Crowley slipped his tongue into his mouth, running it along the edges of his teeth. Their noses collided, their tongues collided, and Aziraphale felt a wave of euphoria wash over him.

His hands trickled down Crowley’s neck onto his shoulders, and then he was forcefully but gently rotating them, so that Crowley’s back was against the wall. Crowley grunted in surprise before grabbing Aziraphale’s waist and pulling him closer as the kisses deepened, both of them letting out soft moans that joined the sounds of mild laps of water around them.

Aziraphale could tell that he was getting hard and was starting to wonder at the feasibility of underwater hand jobs when a sound broke through his clouded conscience. Tyres on gravel. A flash of headlights, visible even to his lidded eyes. His entire body froze stiff when he heard the unmistakable sound of a car door slamming shut.

Crowley’s eyes were still closed, his dark eyelashes brushing the skin above his cheeks. He was breathing hard, as was Aziraphale. Aziraphale floated away from Crowley’s grip around his hips before the other man had even opened his eyes all the way.

Clumsily, Aziraphale made his way to the steps of the pool, grappled his way out of the water. His shirt clung to him in the most unflattering way possible, and he struggled to slip on his sandals. Grabbing the towel to wrap around his shoulders, he made for the gate, leaving the empty tray and wine bottle. He glanced back as he closed the gate behind him to see Crowley still hovering in the pool, gazing after him completely dumbfounded.

Aziraphale entered the house the back way, feeling uneasy as he snuck up to his room. He turned the tap on the tub and began to prepare a hot bath, his fingers still shaking from what he’d just done. In the soft light of the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—lips swollen, chest hair visible from the top of his soaking shirt. He looked absolutely debauched.

What had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from this Mitski song, PLEASE listen to it: [Come into the Water](https://open.spotify.com/track/20heAqI3ysB8CjwBMCx6PD?si=zCE9TmlZQpmoOoBrBhTLQA)
> 
> I DID look up stuff related to synchronised swimming, I'm sorry if it's wildly inaccurate


	3. the way i feel it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where I can remove the Eventual Smut tag, fyi
> 
> cw: there is an injury with blood (not during the smut lol), but it isn't serious and it isn't described in great detail 
> 
> chapter title from Underwater Love by Smoke City

The evening in the pool had progressed so quickly, Aziraphale could almost get away with forgetting that it had happened.

In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t really registered what was going on, nor had he appreciated it nearly enough. It was a bit like when he read a section of one of his already published books and cursed himself for not spending more time fleshing out what could have been a much stronger scene. The kiss in the pool felt like a scene that should have been fleshed out in _much_ greater detail.

He should’ve savoured the taste of Crowley’s mouth—his memory was too fuzzy, but he distinctly remembered a hint of wine on the softness of his lips. There had been a vague scent of chlorine in the air as well, but also a more distinct smell that he knew must have been Crowley.

He hadn’t savoured it.

His hands had barely touched anything besides Crowley’s hair—he’d missed out on being able to run his fingers across his bare torso, the lines of his back, the outline of his jaw. And underwater, everything would have been slippery, it would have been so easy to slide his hands from one part of Crowley’s body to another. The opportunity had been right there, and it would have been magical.

Because now, it was ruined. Aziraphale had ruined it by running off. He was cross with himself, more than he was with Harriet for arriving home at that precise moment. Harriet would never have thought to check the pool before going inside, and even if she had, he was entitled to a late-night swim. And if the pool attendant happened to be there as well, that wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was to be expected, if anything. Crowley was in charge of the pool, took care of it almost as tenderly as he did all the plants in the gardens. He was perfectly authorised to swim in it, anytime he chose.

But the thought of interruption had been enough to pull Aziraphale out of the moment and consider how he would explain himself, to his sister, to Crowley. He wasn’t ready for that, hadn’t examined his thoughts and feelings, and so of course removing himself from the equation had been the best course of action.

Overthinking things had been the downfall of many romantic endeavours in the past, but he continued to do it. He didn’t like to do it, but he couldn’t help it.

The next morning, awoken very early after a fitful night of rest, Aziraphale hashed out the reasons why it was wrong to start anything with Crowley.

While he shaved, he mulled over the fact that this was a short-term vacation—once he was back in London in a few weeks’ time, there’d be no way to see Crowley again. They’d go their separate ways, and maybe Aziraphale would catch a glimpse of him whenever he visited the Dowling’s, but Crowley would never have a reason to go to London.

Aziraphale dragged a wet cloth across his freshly smooth skin and moved on to brushing his teeth.

Sure, he could sleep with Crowley by way of having an intense aestival affair, but Aziraphale knew he was not made of such stern stuff. As soon as he experienced an orgasm in Crowley’s company, chances were that he would start falling in love very quickly. Almost immediately, in fact, as he figured he was already about halfway there. Then he’d just be setting himself up for long-distance pining, the kind which would hardly go away with isolation from the source. Images of Crowley would come to him unbidden, even when there wasn’t a pool in sight.

By the time he’d got dressed and made his way downstairs, Aziraphale had firmly disciplined himself on the matter.

He would not allow Crowley to wriggle his way any further into his mind, and to do this it would probably be best to avoid seeing him. No more lazy afternoons gawking by the poolside, or “writing sessions” on the veranda while Crowley gardened. He had to have a little self-control.

In the west wing of the house (it was one of those houses large enough to have _wings_ ), there was a moderately large library. It wasn’t quite so large that Aziraphale would lose himself browsing the stacks, but it had several nooks perfect for hiding away to write. The windows were small and obscured by musty curtains, so distraction from outside should be minimal. The room was also secluded from the more active areas of the house—Aziraphale counted on being able to lock himself away and think only of his book.

For the first day or two it went surprisingly well. No one bothered him, unless you counted the occasional thought of Crowley rubbing sun cream over his bare body, but Aziraphale successfully banished such thoughts. He only left the library to get nibbles and to stroll aimlessly through the corridors while he ruminated on the next chapter to be written.

He hadn’t even seen Crowley around, since he made sure to go for a walk around the grounds well before Crowley would arrive. Then there were several days of heavy rain, the kind that beat down on the roof like a stampede of angry animals. Aziraphale spared a sad thought for the plants, hoping they weren’t being washed away into oblivion. And Crowley had said something about the pool—rain wasn’t good for it. When the sun finally returned, Crowley would probably have to spend a lot of time putting it right…

* * *

At long last, a day with promisingly clear skies arrived. Aziraphale felt that he deserved a break—significant progress on his book had been made in the past few days, and he’d hardly thought about Crowley (well, he had, but he’d felt guilty about it; he thought it was time to ease up on the guilt).

He decided to treat himself to a full English breakfast—eggs, grilled tomato, bangers, and toast. As he was monitoring the pan, he glanced out the window and was rewarded with a sight he’d greatly come to miss.

Crowley was back in his only natural habitat outside of the pool—the gardens. He had on yet another sexy T-Shirt with the arms cut off and a silly baseball cap on his head. It seemed that he was pulling weeds and chucking them into a wheelbarrow over his shoulder, but he also occasionally picked up a hoe and churned up the soil with some calculated thrusts.

Aziraphale allowed himself to admire the way his body worked, even though he intended not to let himself anywhere near Crowley if he could help it. Almost burning his sausages proved to him that this would be easier said than done, especially with the weather being the way it was. He could almost see the sheen of sweat on Crowley’s speckled shoulders, the strands of slick hair sticking to the nape of his neck. Just imagine what it would be like to taste…

_No._ Aziraphale jostled the sausages a little more violently than perhaps they deserved in his attempt to refocus. He put a slice of bread in the toaster and took the butter out of the fridge. Turning back to the stove, a sudden movement caught his eye immediately.

Crowley’s long arms were thrown out in a dramatic indication of shock as he appeared to stumble backwards. However, the wheelbarrow lurked at knee-level, and, knocking into it, he stumbled backwards until he lost his footing and fell flat on his arse.

Aziraphale dropped the butter on the counter and leaned closer to the window. Crowley was still on the ground and writhing in either embarrassment or pain. It had looked like a painful fall, even more so than when he had plunged unexpectedly into the pool that first morning. Clearly he needed some assistance, perhaps a hand getting himself back up…

The garden was alive with the sound of birds and insects. As soon as Aziraphale opened the back door, dovelike cooing and the vibrating buzzes of all sorts of winged insects filled his ears. It was a veritable sanctuary of wildlife.

“Crowley?” He called out as he made his way carefully around the shrubs to where Crowley had been working. “Are you all right?”

“Nnngffh,” came a strangled sound from beside a row of violets.

Aziraphale made his way hastily towards the noise. Crowley was sitting up, but had a hand clutched to the back of his thigh and a worried expression on his face. “Careful, there’s a snake,” he warned with a vague wave of his other hand in the direction of the flowerbed.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Crowley. The blood dripping from his hand suggested otherwise. “A little. Just fell onto the hoe, I think.”

Aziraphale hurried over to offer a hand, his eyes peeled for snakes but seeing nothing. “Let me help you, my dear. We’ll get you all patched up inside.”

Crowley staggered to his feet and Aziraphale thought that perhaps he was overdoing it a bit with the wounded expression and the limping, but then he caught a glimpse of the nasty gash on his leg and felt an instant pang of concern. He held out his arm for support, which Crowley batted away with a grunt, “I’m fine.”

Hobbling over the threshold with Crowley at his side, Aziraphale smelled the distinct aroma of a slightly singed breakfast. He rushed to the stove to turn off the gas, ushering Crowley into a chair on the way.

“Are you hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale piled an egg and sausage on top of the piece of toast and set it down in front of his rescuee. “I’ll be back in a tick with a first aid kit, please do tuck in.”

Had Crowley ever been inside the house before? Aziraphale wondered as he rummaged in a closet, thinking about the dirt clumped to Crowley’s boots and how clean the house was.

When he came back to the kitchen, Crowley was stood at the table, twisting his torso in an attempt to see the back of his leg. Aziraphale deposited the first aid kit on the table next to the untouched plate of breakfast. “Why don’t you let me have a look, hm?”

Crowley froze, his face an empty canvas of mild horror. Aziraphale was aware of the awkwardness of Crowley’s wound—the only way he’d be able to look at it was by kneeling and putting his face awfully close to his arse. Which would inevitably lead to Aziraphale picturing a similar configuration with a completely different endgame in mind…

With Crowley’s eventual nod of approval, Aziraphale took a pad of wet gauze and leant to eye level with the cut. It was hard to tell how bad it was with the dusting of dark hair obscuring the wound. Aziraphale took a deep breath, then pressed the gauze to the bloodied area, applying gentle pressure.

Crowley, fingers pressed against the ledge of the table, made no sound besides a tensed exhale through his mouth. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” Crowley breathed. “Not a bit.”

“Alright, well I’m going to clean it with an alcohol swab, get ready.” He opened the small packet, got close to Crowley’s leg again. Careful not to touch any other part of his thigh, he dabbed at the cut, each touch punctuated with a sharp inhale from Crowley. “It’s not very deep,” Aziraphale said with one last swipe of the cloth. “Would you like me to put a plaster, or just apply some antibacterial ointment?

“The ointment’s fine.”

Without being able to see Crowley’s face, Aziraphale wasn’t sure if the tone in his voice was due to embarrassment, discomfort, pain, or something else entirely. He threw out the bloodied cloth, washed his hands, and got a tube of antibacterial cream from the kit.

With his index finger, he gently rubbed the ointment into Crowley’s skin. The smell of the cream intermingled with the scent of freshly cut grass, dirt, sweat. Aziraphale pulled away before he could let it intoxicate him too much—already the sight of Crowley’s narrow thighs so up close was making him want to bury his nose into the hair, lave his tongue across the warmth.

“All done!” He stood up and put everything back in the first aid kit, mentally collecting himself as well. “Now please, have something to eat before it gets cold.”

Crowley let out a weak laugh as he turned around. “What are you, a guardian angel?”

“Hardly, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Or else I would’ve been able to keep that snake out of your way.”

“Wasn’t the snake’s fault,” Crowley said, adjusting the baseball cap over his unkempt ponytail.

“Was it a dangerous one? An adder, or whatever they’re called?”

“No, it was just a little grass snake. Startled me, is all.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, but let it slide. Crowley talked a big game about being pro garden snakes, but if this is how he reacted to seeing one—well, perhaps his support was more theoretical than anything else.

* * *

The evening was warm, except for the occasional breeze that brushed leaves together, rustling the air in excitement. Thaddeus Dowling was home from his trip, looking particularly tan, and to welcome him was a garden full of people.

Harriet had included every member of the house staff in the party invitations, meaning that Aziraphale would have someone to talk to. He felt out of his league with Harriet’s crowd—it reminded him too much of networking at publishing events, where everyone seemed to know each other except for him.

But Crowley was here tonight. He’d been there earlier in the day, setting up the jacuzzi, but left before Aziraphale had mustered the courage to go talk to him. Now, he was back in an entirely different outfit from his usual. Black jeans tighter than seemed comfortable, a fitted grey shirt that accentuated the length of his torso. It was going to be hard to concentrate.

Aziraphale had put on his swimming trunks underneath his trousers. It was slightly uncomfortable, but Harriet had insisted that it was to be a pool party. The combination of the words “pool” and “party” certainly didn’t interest Aziraphale, but the fact that the jacuzzi had been uncovered changed matters a bit.

The drinks table was laden with fruity concoctions, and Aziraphale weaved his way around the other guests to serve himself a peach daiquiri.

“Feeling peachy?”

He turned to find that Crowley had appeared at his side, frou-frou cocktail in hand.

“Good evening, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, glad to see that Crowley was back to acting normally around him. After the awkward moment of patching him up in the kitchen, he hadn’t been so sure it would ever be possible again. “I am, rather, now that I know the hot tub is in business. I’ve always enjoyed a good sauna bath.”

“Have you?”

Aziraphale smiled tentatively. The orb lights that had been strung across the pool deck reflected in Crowley’s eyes, fixed intently on Aziraphale. He wanted to kiss him again, gently tilt his head to the perfect angle with his fingers anchored in those beautiful locks of dirty red hair.

Crowley didn’t so much lead him over to the jacuzzi, as entice him. Something pulled Aziraphale after those slinking hips and sloping shoulders that he simply couldn’t resist.

The jacuzzi was raised from the main pool deck, tucked away on its own platform. None of the party guests had seemed to find it yet; most of them were floating in the pool or drinking in the gardens.

“I’m not going to have to wrestle you in this time, am I angel?”

Crowley seemed to realise what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes grew twice their normal size and his neck turned a colour that it hadn’t been a moment ago, so it couldn’t be sunburn. He was frozen by the little bench adjacent to the tub, cocktail halfway to his lips.

Aziraphale decided to address nothing. Not _angel,_ or _wrestle you in_ , or _this time._ Instead, he set down his drink carefully on the wide ledge of the jacuzzi and started by taking off his shoes. “I shouldn’t think so, no.”

Once he’d managed to take his trousers off, extra mindful not to accidentally remove his trunks as well, Crowley appeared to be reinstated in the moment. He too began unbuttoning his shirt, unhurriedly and without looking in Aziraphale’s direction at all.

“Technically you’re supposed to shower… before you get in the jacuzzi,” Crowley said as Aziraphale was lowering a foot into the water. “But… I suppose it doesn’t matter, since it’s just us for now.”

The tub was cosy, and probably wouldn’t fit more than four people at once. Aziraphale slid in slowly, letting the hot water envelope his body, and with it, release all his tension. He forgot to feel self-conscious, that this was the first time Crowley was seeing him bare-chested, that his stomach was nowhere near as defined. Involuntarily, he let out a full sigh as he sank onto the tub’s bench, light as a feather in the water.

Crowley was in a speedo again, but Aziraphale tried not to let it get to him. He closed his eyes as Crowley unfolded himself into the jacuzzi, hissing quietly at the warmth.

A moment later, the whirlpool feature activated, and they were surrounded by frantic streams of bubbles. It only further relaxed Aziraphale though, and he let his spine curve so that he could rest his head on the ledge, the tips of his hair getting wet.

“This is very nice,” he murmured, to no one in particular.

“’S even better after a long swim in cold water,” Crowley replied.

“I can’t say I’ve ever done that,” Aziraphale said. “The last time I went swimming must’ve been… on holiday to Derwentwater ten years ago or so. And I hated it.” He cracked his eyes open to see Crowley with his arms spread wide and head tipped back. Their feet were close to touching, four indistinct shapes drifting under the jet stream.

“I’ve never swum in a body of water that wasn’t a pool before,” Crowley confessed.

“That’s a shame.” Aziraphale could feel the steam, could feel the heat starting to get to him. He was somehow simultaneously sweaty and submerged in water. “Personally, I dislike swimming, but the United Kingdom is home to some of the most exquisite lakes and ponds in the world.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, as if he was about to make a snarky comment. But- “I’ll have to explore some of them sometime.”

They fell back into silence in a steam-induced stupor, slowly boiling. The distant sounds of banter and splashes of the pool barely reached their jacuzzi haven.

After a while, Aziraphale opened his eyes. He’d felt a brush against his ankle, and had instinctively moved his foot away, only to feel it again. Crowley was looking at him through half-lidded eyes, his arms now plunged in the water, propping his body up on the seat. His toe jabbed Aziraphale’s ankle again, this time more decisively.

It was as if a jolt of energy rose from his foot all the way up the rest of his body. Aziraphale was suddenly, unequivocally, aroused. His whole body tingled, and not just from the loss of hydration from soaking at such a high temperature.

He ran the top of his foot along the back of Crowley’s calf, pleased with the reaction it got. Crowley’s mouth fell open, and Aziraphale saw his hand shift under the water towards his crotch.

Aziraphale also palmed at his erection, releasing his breath at the momentary relief. There was no one else around—you couldn’t even _see_ what was going on underwater. He dipped his fingers beneath the waistband of his swimming trunks, holding eye contact with Crowley. His cock throbbed in anticipation-

Until a soft voice interrupted the steamy moment, and the spell was broken.

“Would you boys like some towels for when you’ve finished cooking in there?”

It was Anathema, in a stylish single-piece orange swimsuit. She patted a stack of fluffy towels and laid them on the ledge of the tub.

“Thanks,” stuttered Crowley to Anathema’s retreating figure. She winked over her shoulder.

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale looked anywhere but at Crowley, “we should get out of the water and dry off.”

“Yeah, great idea.”

Aziraphale clumsily climbed out, happy for the towel he could immediately fasten around his waist. He turned around while Crowley followed him out of the tub, but in his haste, he knocked over his peach daiquiri.

It toppled over onto Crowley’s neatly folded shirt, spreading the slush over the sleek fabric.

“Oh no!” Aziraphale exclaimed uselessly. “Your shirt. I’m sorry.”

Crowley held his towel tightly around his waist, still looking a little stunned. “It’s alright.”

“You can borrow one of my shirts, if you want.”

“That’s fine.”

“You can’t walk around shirtless the rest of the night.”

“Yes, I mean no.” Crowley bared his teeth. “I’ve said yes, I’d like to borrow one of your shirts.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair and then looked up at Aziraphale. “Show me to your room.”

* * *

Aziraphale led the way through the house in a dreamlike daze. Crowley was following so close behind him, Aziraphale could feel his breath on the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end.

“How big is this fucking house,” Crowley said under his breath as they turned the corner after the stairs to go down the corridor leading to Aziraphale’s room.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Aziraphale shut the door and felt the movement release the pent-up energy between them.

Crowley crowded him up against the door and met his lips hungrily. Aziraphale immediately relaxed into the kiss, tasting the slight tang of fruitiness on his tongue. He ran his hands down his chest like he wished he’d done the other night in the pool, grazing at the nipples before wrapping his arms around Crowley’s narrow waist.

Crowley’s hands were occupied with Aziraphale’s own waist and chest, constantly shifting positions in an attempt to feel every part of him.

Both the towels dropped to the ground, completely forgotten. Crowley pulled at Aziraphale’s lower lip, then nipped his way down the column of his throat. Aziraphale skimmed his hands down Crowley’s back, and gasped with each graze of Crowley’s teeth.

“So beautiful,” Crowley murmured between nibbles. “Your body, perfect.”

Aziraphale felt a euphoric wave wash over him and he let himself be nudged away from the door.

Through a series of grabbing at each other and roaming blindly across the room, Aziraphale found himself sitting on the edge of his bed. Crowley climbed on top of him eagerly, straddling his thighs and running his hands up and down the softest parts of his body.

Crowley moaned when Aziraphale cupped his arse with both his hands. “What would you like? I’ll do anything, darling.”

Crowley groaned into the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck. “I want you to fuck me,” he said. “D’you have lube and a condom?”

With some difficulty, Aziraphale managed an answer. “Yes, I think so.”

“Where.” Crowley continued licking and nipping at Aziraphale’s collar bone, making it difficult for him to focus.

“Let me…agh! Let me see,” Aziraphale panted, nudging Crowley to the side. He stumbled off the bed to get to his bag, which he’d never bothered to unpack. In one of the pockets, there were some condoms and a bottle of lube, if only he could remember which one.

Crowley eyed him from the bed, his expression telling Aziraphale to hurry even though he said nothing. Aziraphale’s hands fumbled, uselessly coming up with loose change, old packets of lozenges, an empty eyeglasses case, but no lube.

He could hear Crowley’s heavy breathing and could almost feel his eyes boring into the back of his neck. Aziraphale looked up at his jittery figure on the edge of the bed. “Dear, why don’t you lie back and make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right there.”

With a quiet whine, Crowley obeyed. Seconds later, Aziraphale located his stash of condoms and lube for unexpected sexual opportunities, and rejoined the bed. On his way, he pulled the curtains over his window, but left it cracked so that the occasional breeze of cool air could come in. In the distance, the whir of conversation continued by the pool, now with an undertone of music.

“Take that ridiculous thing off,” Aziraphale said, removing his own swimming trunks before climbing onto the bed at Crowley’s feet.

Crowley was struggling, writhing about on the bed like a snake battling the stretchy wet fabric of his speedo. Aziraphale helped ease it down the length of his legs, over his bony feet, and then tossed it thoughtlessly onto the ground.

Now they were both completely naked, staring at each other. Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh, to which Crowley responded with a suppressed giggle of his own. This was happening.

Aziraphale leant down and started at Crowley’s knee, pressing soft kisses into the skin. Crowley squirmed and mumbled wordlessly, digging his hands into the duvet. “Stay still, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, placing a hand on his hip.

“Angel…” Crowley protested. Aziraphale trailed upwards with his mouth, brushing the very top of his thigh, the dip of his hip bone, the soft and pale skin over his ribs. He pointedly avoided Crowley’s twitching cock.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered when he reached the patch of hair covering Crowley’s upper chest. Crowley, his pupils blown wide, bit into his lip and groaned softly.

Aziraphale bent down and swiped his tongue across one nipple, following it with a light nip between his teeth. Crowley threw his head back on the pillows and moaned loudly. “Shhh,” he said, before mouthing his way over to the other nipple, enjoying the feel of Crowley’s hair on his tongue.

Crowley’s hand scrambled along the bedspread and grabbed the bottle of lube. He started to unscrew it, propping himself up on one elbow. Aziraphale took the bottle from him and gently pushed Crowley back down onto the pillow. He kissed him messily, then slicked his fingers with lube and travelled down between Crowley’s open legs.

When he worked his finger in, Crowley arched his back off the bed. His mouth dropped open before he bit his lip again to stifle a moan. “More,” he panted, looking up at Aziraphale, his hair covering the pillow in a dishevelled mop of copper strands.

The room was getting dark—Aziraphale hadn’t turned on a light and the sun outside was on the verge of dipping below the horizon. He shoved another finger in and started massaging, back and forth and occasionally separating his fingers to work him open.

“Yesss, please, fuckk,” Crowley gripped the bed frame above his head as he canted his hips.

Aziraphale sucked at the pulse point on his neck. “Tell me when you feel ready,” he said.

“Fuck, now, please,” huffed Crowley.

Aziraphale pulled out his fingers and grabbed the condom, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. Beneath him, Crowley whimpered and twitched as he watched Aziraphale slip the condom on with a generously-lubed hand.

Aziraphale lined himself up carefully and looked up into Crowley’s gleaming eyes before he sunk slowly into him.

“Ngghhhf,” was the only sound that came out of him as Aziraphale slid deeper, until he was entirely inside Crowley. Strong, spindly legs wrapped tightly around Aziraphale’s waist, and one hand settled in his hair.

Gently, Aziraphale rocked backwards and then forwards, one arm propping himself up and the other clutching Crowley’s thigh. They both let out muted grunts with each thrust of Aziraphale’s hips, which soon picked up speed.

“You’re so good, Crowley.” He felt the tug of fingers in his hair and wanted to return the favour. He squeezed Crowley’s thigh, then moved his hand up to caress Crowley’s scalp, skim through his hair and tug at it lightly.

Everything about it was lovely; Aziraphale was lost entirely in the moment, simply caught up in Crowley’s face as he fucked him into the mattress. He tugged a little harder on his hair.

Crowley gasped. “Think I’m gonna come,” he sputtered, arching again into Aziraphale’s body.

“Come for me, darling” Aziraphale whispered into the breadth of space between their mouths, to which Crowley responded with another moan. He could feel his own orgasm building at the base of his spine, a feeling he hadn’t experienced properly for a long time. He continued snapping his hips, arrhythmically and frenzied as they both became more and more undone.

Crowley cried out loudly and Aziraphale trapped it with a filthily wet kiss, full of teeth and tongue. Crowley’s spend spurted onto his chest, and Aziraphale could feel the muscles contracting around his cock.

Seconds later, he followed Crowley over the edge, riding out both their orgasms with distracted thrusts while they traded kisses in between ragged breaths.

Aziraphale pulled out once it was all over. He couldn’t believe how good it had been, how happy Crowley looked sprawled across his bed. No awkwardness had set in, they were both incredibly blissed out with exhausted smiles on their faces.

Aziraphale slowly lifted himself away from Crowley, sure that tomorrow he might feel a little stiffness in his arm from holding himself up for so long. “Let me get rid of this and fetch a wet towel,” he murmured.

He padded into the bathroom and discarded the condom. He flicked the less harsh lights on, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere with anything too bright and jarring. From the bedroom, he heard Crowley’s lilting voice. “Do you have a glass for some water, angel? I’m so thirsty.”

Aziraphale realised that he also felt very dehydrated, a light-headedness that was not only from what had just happened. He grabbed the glass by the sink and filled it with water, drinking some himself as he brought it back to the bedroom.

Crowley was sitting up against the headboard with his knees bent, and Aziraphale beamed at the image. As he walked over to him, he noticed the mark where he’d cut himself the other day.

“Oh, I forgot to ask about your injury, dear! Does it hurt?”

“What?” said Crowley, taking the glass of water from Aziraphale’s extended arm. He gulped it down all in one breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.

Aziraphale set the empty glass on the bedside table and mopped up Crowley’s torso. “Your leg, did it bother you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” said Crowley. “Completely forgot about it.”

“That’s good.” Aziraphale paused, then looked around for their clothes. With dismay, he realised that they’d left them all down by the jacuzzi.

“Looks like I’ll be needing to borrow more than just a shirt,” Crowley snickered.

The room was almost completely dark. The party was still going outside, and the sounds of the insects had intensified. Aziraphale heard a splash as someone hurtled into the water. He didn’t feel like going back out there, especially not after what he’d just done with the gardener/pool attendant.

“There are so many people down there,” he lamented. “Why don’t we just stay up here for a while?”

“Fine by me,” Crowley said, already coaxing the duvet open to crawl underneath.

Aziraphale grabbed two clean pairs of briefs and two shirts, then climbed into bed where Crowley curled up to him in the softest way imaginable.

He managed to keep the apprehensive thoughts that lingered in the back of his mind from creeping in before he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will come back later and try to fix the typos in this, for now I just wanted to yeet it
> 
> The last two chapters might take a little longer to update since I have some other things to work on, but in the meantime, [here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7DfrC4HdMOYnrY2a5caTq4?si=TNGBI4UJSiK0sSjIniVCBA) a playlist I'm building off the vibes for this story
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. in slow motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more horny pool content

The water shimmered in a lazy, scatter-brained motif, much like Crowley’s mind. Last night had been… well, it had been exactly what he’d wanted ever since he’d first laid eyes on Aziraphale. Everything about him—primly laid out on the pool chair, bathed in the sun but with almost every part of his body covered—transfixed Crowley entirely.

Gradually, Crowley had witnessed Aziraphale reveal parts of himself, immerse himself in the pocket of space where the passage of time was irrelevant. The water became the more important marker of events. Crowley had involuntarily fallen in when he’d first seen Aziraphale; then he’d dared to splash Aziraphale during Warlock’s swimming lessons, and he hadn’t protested. He’d declined every invitation to come in, until they’d kissed and Aziraphale had slipped in, dry shirt be damned.

Crowley had feared that development had been too fast—perhaps Aziraphale needed to accustom himself to dangling just his feet into the pool before diving all the way in. But then, at the party, Crowley’s worries had been washed away in the bubbling streams of warm water.

Perhaps it’d been the percolating heat of the jacuzzi, maybe it was simply the intimacy of sharing such a small space, but Crowley hadn’t felt afraid to reach out to Aziraphale then. They’d barely needed to speak to communicate what each of them had wanted, it was more like a mutual understanding that found them without any extra effort on their parts.

Crowley had slinked out of the house in the early morning, before Aziraphale was awake, and showered in the pool house. He’d found some spare work clothes in the back of his car, and now he was fishing remnants of last night’s festivities out of the pool.

He extended the long rod into the water, skimming the net along the surface to pick up stray bugs and leaves, a rogue plastic cup and what looked like an abandoned skewer of olives and cheese. The action of removing the foreign objects centred his mind in a soothing routine.

When it was all cleared, Crowley couldn’t help shucking his clothes and diving in for an accelerated few laps up and down the length of the pool. He wondered if Aziraphale would come out to watch him, to ask him questions about swimming, to blatantly fail at disguising his glances across the length of Crowley’s body.

Once he’d done a few flips and dives in the deep end, Crowley felt tired out but refreshed. Aziraphale was still nowhere to be seen, and it wasn’t exactly expected that Crowley could just waltz into the house whenever he pleased…

He tried not to dwell on anything too long and found the hammock he’d hung up between two trees in the orchard. Yard work could wait, although of course he’d regret it when the sun was high and remorseless in the sky. The stretch of suspended fabric was too inviting, and his eyelids were already drooping shut; he collapsed into the hammock with a sigh.

* * *

A gentle tapping on his arm pulled Crowley out of his deep sleep. Blearily he opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the rough fabric cocooned around him.

“Wha-” He rubbed the grogginess from his eyes before registering Aziraphale standing over him.

“Hello, dear. Would you like some gazpacho?”

Crowley blinked. “Some wot?”

The shade from the trees cast a shadow over Aziraphale’s face, but behind him the sky was brightly rayed with sunlight. The effect was a slight halo around the curled wisps of his white-blond hair.

“It’s a soup, of sorts. Spanish. Made with fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic, cucumber. Hm… what else,” Aziraphale nervously brought a nail to his mouth, “ah yes, a red pepper. I made some with the tomatoes you left in the kitchen the other day, from the garden.”

“You…made gazpacho?” Crowley’s mind was taking some time to catch up. “From my tomatoes?”

“Er, yes. I thought it might be a nice use of them.” He scratched his ear. “You could join me for lunch, if you’d like.”

Crowley felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, like jumping off the highest board at the public pool, air swooshing by as you gained velocity towards the inevitable contact with the water below. He hated the feeling of falling, completely out of control, nowhere to go but down. It was the main reason he’d chosen synchronised swimming instead of diving.

Now he felt like he was free falling from a mere lunch invitation from Aziraphale. Why hadn’t he felt this way before they’d slept together? He supposed he had, a little, especially when Aziraphale had been so carefully cleaning the wound he’d got out of his own sheer stupidity.

But it was decidedly worse now. He could almost hear a ringing in his ears. When would he stop falling and finally hit the water, where he could be at ease?

* * *

Crowley was working feverishly to catch up for lost time after yet another afternoon spent having lunch with Aziraphale on the pool deck. He pushed the lawnmower in haphazard zigzags across the grass, then grabbed a basket to harvest the tomato plants before all the fruit went rotten.

The sun moved slowly, the golden hue disappearing as the sky turned a delicate deep blue. The backdrop provided the perfect canvas for the moon to appear, almost as if delicately blotted on the sky with translucent paint.

Crowley waved to the Dowlings as they took off for the village’s summer funfair—the weather was perfect for it, and Warlock was already bouncing with excitement for the rides and candy floss.

Crowley ran the tomatoes into the kitchen, then went back out to return tools to the shed. He’d seen Aziraphale move from the veranda to the pool deck an hour or two earlier and wondered if he’d fallen asleep on the deck chair. He’d been working very hard on his book, and Crowley had noticed that he’d seemed tired lately. He hoped it didn’t mean that Aziraphale was nearing the end of his holiday, and would be heading back to London soon.

Walking hurriedly past the flower beds, Crowley’s eye caught on something in the grass and he did a double take. Sure enough, the cocked head of a tiny green snake stared up at him, blending in dangerously with the blades of grass. Thankfully, this time Crowley didn’t startle enough to trip over his own feet.

He knelt down gingerly, with a safe distance between him and the reptile. “You’re quite cute, aren’t you?”

The snake flicked a skinny tongue out and swivelled smoothly towards a hole in the soil.

Crowley smiled to himself as he closed up the shed and headed to the pool. The lights had automatically switched on, attracting the occasional moth. As he suspected, Aziraphale lay reclined in a pool chair, head lolling to the side and thick manuscript resting on his chest. He jerked awake when Crowley closed the gate behind him and strode across the deck.

“Guess who I just saw?” Crowley said, while Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and placed them to the side with his pile of work.

“Who!?” said Aziraphale, with that adorable, interested but slightly alarmed expression on his face.

“Our friend… the snake,” Crowley declared, hands on his hips. “Snakely, I think it was.”

Aziraphale frowned up at him. “You named the snake? After yourself? The one that nearly caused you serious injury?”

“Ehrrguh,” Crowley shrugged, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’ve seen him around enough, seemed he deserved a name.”

He finally dared to look at Aziraphale’s face, which happened to break into a soft smile at that precise moment, eyes crinkling up at the edges.

“Of course, dear.”

Crowley felt his face flush, as it did every time Aziraphale used the endearment. “Why aren’t you at the funfair tonight? It’s supposed to be loads of fun,” he said, knowing full well that one Ferris Wheel and a couple carnival games didn’t quite add up to loads of fun.

“Oh, I rather fancied a quiet evening in,” said Aziraphale, with a knowing look. It was the same look as from across the water that beckoned Crowley to paddle over to him as quickly as possible the first time they kissed. Except this time, there was no water for Crowley to swim through. Aziraphale sat right in front of him, contentedly gazing at Crowley as if he were the quiet evening he had in mind.

Crowley stumbled forward, nearly tripping over an uneven board in the deck because his eyes were locked with Aziraphale’s. Crowley dropped his knees onto the cushion of the chair, and Aziraphale scooted backwards to accommodate him. His hands travelled to Crowley’s hips and urged him forward into his lap as their lips met in a searing kiss.

Any rational thought about asking Aziraphale when he was due back in London flitted away into the thrum of the cool night air. The only thing that mattered was the warmth of Aziraphale’s mouth eagerly pressed against his own.

Heat gathered in Crowley’s belly, but he held back going any further than gentle licks into Aziraphale’s mouth. He was met with pleasant sounds deep in Aziraphale’s throat, while a warm hand trailed under the hem of his shirt to brush against his cool skin.

Crowley braced his hands on the armrests of the chair as Aziraphale caressed the skin around his hips, then started dipping his fingers into the elastic of his shorts.

“Is this Ok?” Aziraphale rasped into Crowley’s mouth as his hand neared his already half-hard cock.

“Mhfm,” encouraged Crowley, moving both his hands to cradle Aziraphale’s head.

Involuntarily, Crowley thrust his hips forward as Aziraphale took him in hand and began to stroke, twisting at the head. Despite the awkward angle, Aziraphale’s touch sent thrills to the most sensitive parts of Crowley’s body, and he couldn’t stop a soft moan from escaping his mouth.

If he hadn’t felt so utterly taken care of in those moments on Aziraphale’s lap, Crowley might have been embarrassed by how long he lasted. He came in a matter of moments, with his forehead glued to Aziraphale’s shoulder, murmuring apologies for the mess.

Aziraphale’s shirt was probably ruined, but he didn’t complain when Crowley tugged it out of his trousers and reached for his fly. His cock bobbed free and Crowley gripped its base as he closed his mouth over the tip.

Between Aziraphale’s thighs, Crowley felt shielded from the rest of the world. He felt cared for in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, and he put all of the gratitude he had into drawing out Aziraphale’s pleasure with orchestrated movements of his tongue and lips. His efforts soon had Aziraphale breathing raggedly and grabbing at Crowley’s hair.

A sharp squeeze of his shoulder indicated that Aziraphale was close and Crowley moaned and took him deeper. Aziraphale came in a warm flow down Crowley’s throat that he swallowed as best he could.

He released Aziraphale’s cock and licked the stray remains from his lips. Aziraphale pulled him into a messy kiss, fingers fastened into his grimy hair. He was in dire need of a shower, even more now after what they’d done.

“Sorry about your shirt,” Crowley said when they finally parted, looking down at the offending streaks.

“It’ll come out,” Aziraphale said abashedly.

“Maybe we should wash it out now,” Crowley replied with a smirk, “in the pool.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened in a mildly surprised O shape. “Is that sanitary?”

Crowley shrugged. “That’s the point of the chlorine. To keep it sanitary.” Aziraphale looked at him sceptically. He added, “Plus, I really could use a quick swim. C’mon, come in with me.”

He hoisted himself off the pool chair and peeled off his T-shirt. Then, since he didn’t have any spare clothes in his car and he didn’t want to have to ask Aziraphale for spares again, he took off his shorts and pants in one swift movement.

The water was pleasantly cool when he dove in. He half didn’t expect Aziraphale to actually join him, but when he resurfaced at the far end of the pool, Aziraphale was standing timidly at the steps.

Crowley swam over to encourage him—maybe the trick to getting Aziraphale in the water was just that it had to be after nightfall. All those times he’d tried to get him to swim during the day, it had never worked. Or maybe it was simply the prospect of kissing while in the water that incentivised him… Crowley tried not to think too much about it, either way.

“Should I take all my clothes off?”

“Yeah, it’s refreshing.” He watched as Aziraphale began unbuttoning his shirt, then pulling his trousers down to his feet. Still in his shirt and pants, he dipped one foot into the water, balancing adorably on the other foot.

“Oh! It’s quite cold.”

“That’s why you’ve got to swim around to warm up first,” Crowley beckoned.

Aziraphale hesitated before pulling down his briefs and leaving them with his trousers on the deck. Then he carefully stepped into the pool, the water slowly rising to his ankles, then halfway up his calves with the next step. On the last step, the water flitted above his knees.

Crowley raised his arms out of the water in a welcoming motion. Aziraphale took a deep breath, then launched himself belly-first into the water, a delicate splash following in his wake. His open shirt billowed in the water as he sank down so all but his head was submerged.

Crowley paddled over to him and helped him remove the shirt, casting it aside to float weightlessly in the water. His lips looked rather blue, and his teeth chattered—Crowley took his hand and coaxed him towards the deep end.

“You can swim, right?” he asked, suddenly struck with worry that he was forcing Aziraphale to do something he wasn’t comfortable with.

“Y-yes, I’m just not as good as you are,” Aziraphale shivered.

“Nonsense,” said Crowley. He gave Aziraphale’s hand a tug before letting go, doing a backstroke as he kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s trembling frame. “Come on, you won’t be cold anymore.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath then outstretched his limbs to glide through the water. Crowley was hit with the disappointment that it was pretty much impossible to swim and cuddle at the same time—otherwise, he would’ve pressed his body to Aziraphale’s in an expression of undying support. He looked unsure as he paddled forward, lifting his head to keep his chin up out of the water and letting out adorable little huffs as he kicked his legs.

It became almost too much for Crowley and he turned in a dive down to the bottom of the pool, scraping his sternum along the rough surface and holding his breath until it had been long enough to shoot back up to the calm night air.

* * *

The dahlias along the side of the house were glowering menacingly at Crowley. He’d only given them a stern talking to, but apparently that had pissed them off and now they weren’t going to bloom for the full length of the season as revenge.

He and Aziraphale had been spending absurd amounts of time together, which meant that all of Crowley’s plants got shafted in terms of how much attention he gave them. The unsettling bubble in his chest hadn’t gone away and taking it out on the flowers certainly wasn’t going to ease his anxieties.

He knew he had to talk to Aziraphale, but he had the equal fear that talking to him would ruin the blissful pocket of perfection they’d cultivated during the weeks of Aziraphale’s visit. He was afraid that Aziraphale only looked at this as a casual, holiday tryst, which, at first, Crowley had been fine with. It wasn’t his style, but for Aziraphale, he’d decided to go with it.

But now… Crowley was beginning to suspect that the uneasy feeling he’d had from the beginning had more to do with the inevitable let down that would come when Aziraphale rejected him.

So he’d been putting off any serious conversation and directing all frustrations towards the dahlias on the side of the house. Aziraphale only ever joined him when he was working in the main garden, so he could get a bit of privacy off where the dahlias were supposed to be blooming.

Another part of the grounds that Aziraphale had seen very little of was the orchard. Crowley hoped to change that—he’d worked very hard on many of the trees and now some of them were ready to bear fruit.

In the back of Crowley’s mind, the fruit trees were what would make Aziraphale want to stay in Tadfield forever, and by extension, stay with him. It was a fool proof plan—he’d been saving it until the fruits were at their most indulgently plump.

There were figs, plums, pears, and apples, but only the figs had reached the satisfactory ripeness so far. Crowley had nursed all the trees from when they were tiny saplings, getting them ready to stand up to the harshness of the seasons. He could barely wait to show them off to Aziraphale.

Crowley marched around the side of the house, adjusting his hat against the sun. He spotted Aziraphale in the herb garden, walking along the cobbled path that looped around to the vegetable patch. He looked appreciative of the plants, like a proud artist admiring his work.

With his wellies squelching at every footfall (he’d ventured into the brambles at the edge of the property to pick berries earlier and never taken them off), Crowley walked to meet Aziraphale.

“The rosemary bush smells divine,” Aziraphale said as Crowley approached. He rubbed a stalk between his fingers and brought his hand up to inhale the scent. Crowley grunted in agreement.

“The fig trees are ready. Wanna come pick some with me?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “I’ve seen a lovely recipe for fig and rosemary chicken!” he exclaimed, fingers still caressing the rosemary plant. “We could make some!”

Crowley’s cheeks lifted into a beaming smile of their own accord. “Right this way,” he gestured, leading Aziraphale out the gate to the orchard.

“If the apocalypse came, you could be entirely self-sufficient here,” Aziraphale mused as he matched Crowley’s pace across the grass. “You have such a green thumb, you could grow everything you’d ever need, even herbs for medicinal purposes! It really is ever so impressive.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together, glanced sideways timidly. His cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the wave of humidity that had descended that morning.

Crowley shook his head dismissively. He didn’t like thinking about doomsday scenarios, and he knew that in the actual event of the end times, he wouldn’t be capable of keeping his head on well enough to survive on his gardening skills. He’d probably just get drunk and cry until the zombies found him. But if Aziraphale chose to think that he was really all that good in the garden, then he wasn’t going to contradict him.

They reached the grove of fig trees, lined along a trellised fence. The dark green leaves shaded the ripened fruits, and the distinct scent brought images of lazy nights by a river to mind. Crowley put down the stepladder and basket he’d brought with him.

“I’ll take the upper branches, you take the lower branches?” he suggested, secretly questioning his ability to retain his balance on the ladder, especially with Aziraphale around. But better him than Aziraphale, if one of them was going to fall.

Plucking figs off the tree was a pleasant activity; they came off the branch so easily, like they wanted to be picked. The milky substance that seeped out of the severed stems wasn’t sticky in an unpleasant way, and it smelled sweet and coconutty.

Crowley waded through the branches with his arms, occasionally cursing at a belligerent insect. Below him, Aziraphale made progress on the low-hanging fruit, exclaiming at the plumpness, richness, roundness of the figs.

“Have you ever tried a wild fig?” Crowley asked as he stepped safely down from the ladder, the basket full to the brim.

“I don’t believe I have, no. Don’t get much chance in London.” Aziraphale’s eyes were round and eager. He blinked and Crowley felt his heart stutter inexplicably.

Reaching above Aziraphale’s head, Crowley plucked two figs from a branch. They were a perfect brown, soft and ripe enough that the skin was starting to fracture, looking like stretch marks on a thigh.

Crowley intended to give one fig to Aziraphale and eat the other one himself. But Aziraphale gazed at him so intently, his chest visibly rising and falling, his arms pinned to his side. Crowley lifted his hand, maintaining eye contact with Aziraphale, until the fig was level with his mouth. Aziraphale’s eyes darted down to Crowley’s fingers, then back up. Slowly, he parted his lips and leant forward.

In a daze, Crowley let his fingers move to meet Aziraphale’s mouth, feeding him a bite of the fig. Aziraphale’s teeth sunk into the fig gently, as if he were afraid of harming it or accidentally biting down on one of Crowley’s fingers.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale practically moaned as he tasted the rich, meaty inside of the fruit. “It’s so much sweeter than I expected,” he said around the bite, appreciation shining from his eyes. “Don’t you want to try some?”

Crowley nodded with considerable difficulty, incapable of coherent thought or simple motor skills. All that mattered was Aziraphale’s lips so close to his fingers, the way they pursed together as he chewed, his tongue darting out as he finished.

Crowley wavered before guiding the stem to his own mouth to bite off the bit of fruit left there. The only thing he could think as he chewed was This is what his mouth tastes like right now. Right. Now.

Once he’d swallowed, surprised he’d managed not to choke from the distraction, Aziraphale stepped forward. In an agonizingly slow motion, he brought a hand up to cup Crowley’s jaw.

Crowley reacted by dropping the other fig (another freebie for the foxes, who went absolutely feral over figs) and leaning into Aziraphale. He put his hand at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and fell towards him—only to be foiled by the brim of his baseball hat. Generally the hat was useful, because it protected his nose and cheeks from becoming even more freckled than they already were, but now it was an utter nuisance, practically a menace.

Aziraphale jumped when the brim jabbed him in the brow, a little laugh escaping him. He reached up and removed it slowly, once again setting the pace slower than Crowley would rather.

Perhaps Aziraphale took pity on him, or his impatience was displayed too plainly on his face, because the next moment, Aziraphale was covering Crowley’s lips with his own. Even though it was far from their first kiss, Crowley experienced the same soaring in his stomach that he did each time Aziraphale kissed him.

He sighed into it, letting Aziraphale take the lead by backing Crowley up to the trellis as he gradually deepened the kisses. As Crowley knew he would find, the kiss was highlighted by the syrupy tang of fig, almost like a liqueur adorning both of their tongues. They traded kisses slowly, while Aziraphale’s hand flitted up and down Crowley’s side.

Eventually, Crowley was entranced enough to forget that it was broad daylight, in an orchard where they were only perfunctorily shielded by the fence and the tree branches. He shifted his hands from the generously cushioned nether region of Aziraphale’s back, to the front of his trousers. As his tongue ran along Aziraphale’s teeth, his hands dexterously began searching for the top button of his trousers.

With a sloppy, obscene noise, Aziraphale broke the kiss. His nose nuzzled against Crowley’s as he whispered. “Better not here, darling.”

It was a good job his back had a resting spot—Crowley nearly toppled over at darling. Darling was not a name people used to refer to their summer flings—darling suggested something much more permanent, didn’t it? Crowley couldn’t remember ever being called darling before, by anyone. He swooned.

“Is the bedroom available, then?”

“The bedroom is the perfect place,” Aziraphale murmured, nipping Crowley’s earlobe.

Crowley nearly sent the basket of figs flying off the stepladder in his haste to get them there as soon as possible.

* * *

After blissful, as good as it always was, tender, athletic, loving, sex with Aziraphale, Crowley took a moment to recuperate. He wasn’t going to go to sleep—but he wasn’t going to get out of bed yet either. And neither was Aziraphale, for that matter.

They looked at each other as they lay side by side, not bothering to get under the covers. Their hands met in the space between them, soft smiles the extent of their communication.

Once the postcoital euphoria had diminished slightly, Crowley felt a familiar nagging in his stomach. Ask him, screamed the conscious part of his brain. He’ll say yes, just get confirmation. Confirmation that he wants to be with you.

Crowley battled with the voice in his head, weary of making any sudden movements when his knuckles were being so gently stroked by Aziraphale’s thumb. Saying something now could be a reckless move, especially given the fact that neither of them were exactly clothed.

In all his consternation, Crowley had failed to take note of the growing shadow of anxiety on Aziraphale’s face. He noticed it with a jolt when his eyes pulled focus out from the roll of skin beneath his chin. Aziraphale’s lower lip distorted under the pull of his teeth, and his forehead clenched in a worried frown.

“Crowley…”

Oh, shit. This is it. He’s going to end it right now, Crowley thought. Saves me the embarrassment of what I was about to say, at least. He knew he hadn’t actually been ready to say something, but he couldn’t help but feel that he’d narrowly escaped insult to injury. But what was about to come would be just as bad, as far as rejections were concerned.

“I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and I am so grateful for the time we’ve had.”

Crowley lay frozen on the bed as the arm under his head started to go numb, with no willpower to shift position. He watched Aziraphale carefully consider how to continue.

“But, as you know, I have been working on a book manuscript. And writing here has been lovely, I do not miss the city one bit. I am, however, due for a meeting with my publisher. Long past due, in fact.”

Crowley shut his eyes tightly. The convenient ‘I have to get back to work, duty calls’ excuse. He should’ve seen it coming.

“And,” Aziraphale barrelled on, no regard for Crowley’s feelings, “I’ll have to leave for London tomorrow morning.”

Eyes were better left shut. Some of the best things occurred when the eyelids served their purpose—sleeping, swimming underwater, kissing, even sneezing, arguably. Ignoring problems was another big one, much easier to do with closed eyes.

Crowley squeezed his eyes tight shut until his darkened vision began bursting with stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the ending of this chapter, rest assured that this is an essentially ANGST-FREE story, the fastest burn I've ever written, and will be mostly tooth-rotting fluff in the final chapter
> 
> Crowley naming Snakely is a subtle nod to [Snekley and Eyeziraphale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23430913/chapters/56159449), in case you are unfamiliar with the iconic AU!!
> 
> And lastly - I'm not tagging individual sex acts, but lmk if there's something I should tag/warn for that I've missed. Thanks for reading!


	5. windermere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger of the last chapter! Here's the short and sweet conclusion of this story, thank you all for following along. 
> 
> cw: brief mention of drowning (fear of drowning, to be more specific)

“…Crowley?” Aziraphale stopped stroking Crowley’s hand when he noticed that he’d screwed his eyes shut in the most painful manner. He moved his hand to Crowley’s arm. “Are you alright?”

One eye opened to a reveal a sliver of amber. “You’re going back to London?” Crowley’s voice sounded small and hopeless.

“Yes, for a meeting,” Aziraphale repeated, suddenly worried that perhaps his understanding of where their relationship was going was mistaken. “But I thought I might come back here afterwards, and I was wondering…”

Crowley opened his eyes wide and propped himself up on an elbow, attentive and shimmering with hope. Aziraphale swallowed, unsure that what he was about to say would be what Crowley wanted to hear. He faltered.

“You were wondering…?”

Aziraphale looked at the hollow of Crowley’s neck, the cavity of his collar bone created by the angle of the arm used to prop his body up. He took a deep breath. “Well, you mentioned you’ve never been swimming anywhere besides a pool. And – and this has been a lovely holiday for me, but I’ve also been working most, well, some of the time, and a proper vacation before the end of the summer season would be… welcome. AndIwasWonderingIfYouWantedToGoWithMeToLakeWindermere,” he sputtered all in one breath.

Crowley, blinking owlishly, sat up on his heels. “Hold on a second. You’re inviting me, to go with you, to a lake?”

“That’s correct,” Aziraphale confirmed. He schooled his face not to appear too hopeful, knowing that he’d probably failed spectacularly and was looking at Crowley with pure, pitiful optimism.

“You don’t even like to swim!” Crowley exclaimed, finally.

“But you do.”

Crowley stared at him, mystified.

“And,” Aziraphale continued, “I’d be amenable to swimming in a lake, even though it’ll be cold. It’s grown on me, and besides, the Lake District is absolutely stunning, I think you’d love it there.” He paused, gauging Crowley’s interest. “So… what do you think?”

“I – I think I’d love to come with you to Lake Windermere.”

Aziraphale’s chest filled with relief, or perhaps it was the weight of the worry he’d carried with him for the last several weeks leaving his body that made him feel light, almost floating.

Beside him, Crowley flopped down on his back with a similar sigh, as if he were releasing a breath he’d been holding for longer than necessary. Aziraphale placed a palm on his chest, stroking the dark hair there.

“It never occurred to me before, but don’t swimmers usually shave off their body hair?”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Only when they’re competing. I haven’t shaved for…years.”

“Why do they do it? It can’t possibly make you go any faster.”

“I doubt it. It’s more psychological speed, I think, than anything else. You think you’ll be smoother without the extra bit of drag from the hair, so you actually are smoother, and faster.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you ask, does it bother you, all this hair?” Crowley asked, with a nod towards his torso.

“No,” Aziraphale was quick to say, although he thought his fingers (with a mind of their own) spoke for themselves. “I love it.”

And after that, neither of them said anything, trading kisses and compliments as the late afternoon breeze swept through the open window.

* * *

Aziraphale set off the next day for London, with a weight lifted from his shoulders. Although he was disappointed to be leaving Crowley behind, the conversation they’d had the night before had put his mind at ease. Crowley wanted to see him again. Had given him his personal number. Aziraphale had even bought a return ticket already and had been kissed goodbye at the train station.

Sitting in the grubby seats of the railcar reminded him of the journey he’d taken a mere four weeks earlier in the opposite direction. Before he’d worked out what was blocking the progress on his novel. Before he’d become intimately familiar with how it felt to swim completely naked.

There wasn’t much he needed to do in London. Gabriel had been nagging him for a meeting, insisting that they meet in person before Gabriel went off for a month-long holiday in Bora Bora.

Other than the meeting, he just needed to make sure his flat wasn’t suffering further plumbing damages, and he could be on his merry way back north. But he was staying in London for a week, so he made himself a list of things to get done so he wouldn’t spend too much time thinking about what Crowley was doing without him.

In their text messages, they’d started referring to the grounds at the Dowling’s house as the Garden of Eden—because it really did feel like its own corner of paradise. Apart from the occasional bout of dreary weather, Aziraphale hadn’t experienced such a long stretch of near-perfect temperatures for a long time. Crowley claimed that it was unusual, and that the sunny weather was probably Aziraphale’s doing, a blessing unknowingly bestowed upon the entire town of Tadfield.

Aziraphale had taken on the planning of their holiday north. Crowley had arranged for a week off from gardening and offered to drive—everything else was being handled by Aziraphale. He’d found a highly reviewed bed and breakfast cottage in Cumbria, not far from Lake Windermere. He texted Crowley as soon as he got confirmation from the owner of the cottage, Agnes Nutter. “You will experience total bliss here,” read her email, rather ominously.

Aziraphale had also set out on researching anything that could be helpful for a lake holiday—what materials they’d need for wild swimming, the health benefits of swimming in what promised to be rather cold water, other activities they could embark on if they, heaven forbid, got bored of the water. He texted Crowley with every bit of information he found, to which Crowley simply replied, “lovely <3”.

He couldn’t believe that he’d gone from being frankly quite frightened of the water, to planning a week-long vacation spent as close to the water as possible. Long ago, when Aziraphale was a boy, his mother would take him and his siblings to swim at the ponds on the Heath. He remembered the dread of swimming lessons, not only due to his discomfort at having to remove his clothing, but also the overwhelming fear he had of drowning. At the time, the only way to avoid drowning was to not enter the water at all. Now, swimming represented the opposite—swimming prevented drowning, and the more you got comfortable with it, the less afraid of the water you would be.

* * *

Crowley’s car was… well it was doing its best, that much Aziraphale could concede. He wasn’t sure how much faith he had in it braving the M6, but Crowley certainly seemed confident in the old banger.

Aziraphale arrived in Tadfield mid-morning, and Crowley met him at the train station with the sputtering Volvo raring to go. They’d stopped off at Crowley’s house so Aziraphale could freshen up before they continued on towards Cumbria, an estimated four-hour trip.

Crowley’s place was overgrown in a way that surprised Aziraphale, who was used to his ordered cultivation of the Dowling garden. Crowley was eager to continue on without dawdling too much, ushering Aziraphale through the house, straight back to the bathroom without pausing to show him around.

Azirphale managed to calm him down with a proper kiss, convincing Crowley that he truly wouldn’t be able to sit in the car for that long without first getting a tour of his house. There wasn’t much to see—a small kitchenette, one bedroom that was woefully unadorned. But Aziraphale liked it nonetheless, the cosy orderliness of it, and he told Crowley as much.

Crowley scoffed and slipped his glasses on. He picked up his rucksack and ushered Aziraphale out the door, locking it behind him.

Only slightly delayed, they stopped for petrol and snacks before truly leaving Tadfield behind. Aziraphale felt a rush of excitement—this was the beginning of the true holiday, a trip with just him and Crowley. The two of them together. For a whole week. Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t get tired of Crowley, but what if Crowley got fed up with him?

He looked to his right and was only partially reassured by the expression on Crowley’s face. His jaw was locked in a tight line, one hand clutching the wheel and the other gripping the gearshift tight enough for his knuckles to go white.

* * *

It turned out that Crowley’s tension was most likely related to driving than anything else. The motorway was an utter nightmare; constant dodging rude drivers, the car protesting at the slightest acceleration, and confusing directions.

Aziraphale tried to be helpful by checking the blind spots, updating Crowley on how far til the next turn off, pointing out potentially dangerous motorists. But Crowley didn’t take it very well, getting increasingly flustered and snappy. He very nearly barked when Aziraphale offered him a scotch egg he’d bought at the petrol station.

After a while Aziraphale gave up trying to co-pilot (he didn’t know how to drive himself anway), accepting that Crowley was going to be stressed no matter what. He spent the rest of the drive looking out the window at the fields whipping by, the white and black spots that he presumed were sheep.

Before he knew it, Crowley’s satnav app was telling them to turn off in 5km, onto a much calmer country road. Crowley was much more at ease, and barrelled confidently down the mostly straight path, over the occasional bridge as they neared their destination. In the distance, rolling green hills lingered reassuringly.

“We made it!” Aziraphale said cheerily as they pulled into the gravelled drive of the cottage. He snuck a glance at Crowley, who’d been silent for the past several hours. He pulled the handbrake and cut the engine with a sigh.

“Sorry for being rude earlier. I don’t like driving on the motorway, and I think I’m hungry.”

Aziraphale smiled instantly. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve planned ahead and already know which restaurant we’re going to tonight,” he said.

Crowley slid his sunglasses off and turned his face to Aziraphale. “I never would’ve done this trip without you,” he said, leaning forward and scanning Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Me neither,” Aziriaphale replied right before sealing their lips together.

* * *

“I am a bit sore,” said Aziraphale as they made their way along the trail to the lake the following morning.

“From last night?” suggested Crowley, a gleam in his eye.

“What? No, from the long trip yesterday! I spent two more hours in transit than you did, remember,” Aziraphale rebuked.

His soreness could have been caused by their activities the night before, but he wasn’t going to tell Crowley that. He’d get far too full of himself. He showed his enthusiasm to Crowley well enough when they were in bed, he didn’t have to go exaggerating how much he liked it.

“Well, all the more reason to go for a swim, then,” Crowley said with a sly tilt of his head. His excitement about wild swimming was growing exponentially the closer they got to the water—he’d almost reached boyish proportions of buoyant energy, radiating off him as they ambled side by side down to the water’s edge.

Through the woodland, the calm water came into view. It was much vaster than Aziraphale expected it to be, the dock a lone marker of scale over the black surface. In the distance, a few buoys and swimmers bobbed around. Beyond the lake, the outline of faraway peaks dominated the horizon. Other than that, they were alone.

The sky, peppered with clouds, reflected off the surface of the water. Crowley immediately began stripping down to his wetsuit bottoms, tossing his clothes onto the dock. He eagerly waded into the water, gasping upon contact.

“It’s really cold, angel,” he called through bared teeth, his shoulders raised up to his ears.

“Maybe I’ll just stay here and watch…” Aziraphale was sure that if Crowley thought it was cold, his body might go into shock.

Crowley pouted, arms and mouth both drooping down towards the water. “It’s not that bad, once you get used to it,” he pleaded. “I’ve read all kinds of things about the benefits of cold-water swimming, you’ll be kicking yourself if you don’t at least try it, c’mon.”

“I was the one who sent you those articles in the first place, dear,” Aziraphale called.

“Exactly, so get in here!”

Aziraphale sighed in defeat and began shimmying out of his trousers. He supposed it didn’t make any sense to drag Crowley all the way up to the Lake District and then leave him to swim all on his own. He pushed away sudden, graphic fears about things, creatures, that could be lurking in the invisible depths and gingerly stepped towards the water.

* * *

Cold didn’t even begin to cover it. The intensity of the water attacked the surface of his skin first, numbing it to the point of producing a prickling sensation. Even though he’d only walked in up to his calves, Aziraphale’s legs felt frozen in place, the rest of his body stunned by the contrast of the water and the air around him.

Crowley had ventured further up to his waist, his mouth agape as his torso curled away from the water. He beckoned Aziraphale in further with a trembling arm.

Neither of them could stop gasping, each movement in the water taking their breath away with its rude, all-encompassing presence. Aziraphale had read that when wild swimming, it was safest to stay in the water no more minutes than there were degrees centigrade. He’d thought to research the average temperature of the lake during this time of year, but in this state of complete numbness, he doubted he’d be able to tell when 15 minutes had passed.

The deeper they got, the more his lower body acclimated to the water, as each new millimetre caused a shock to his skin. But soon it started to feel good, almost deceivingly so. Aziraphale relished the freezing burn and sank in all the way up to his shoulders. He took deep breaths and loosened his grip on Crowley’s wrist.

Crowley, ever adventurous in the water, set out past the end of the dock. The water was calm and dark, and Aziraphale had no idea how quickly it sloped off, if the bottom of the lake disappeared from view. Crowley swam expertly through the water, seemingly unperturbed by the possibility of anything lurking beneath him. He could probably outswim anything else in here, Aziraphale thought.

He thought about how simple life seemed for Crowley when he was in the water. It started to overwhelm him, a sense of clarity that perhaps was brought about by the clean, cool water all around him. Crowley meant so much to him, more than any of the books he’d written or positive reviews he’d received. None of those things would mean anything if he didn’t have Crowley by his side—did Crowley know that? Could Crowley sense how much Aziraphale cared about him?

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice broke through Aziraphale’s train of thought, his relaxed state of mind from the embrace of frigid water.

“What?” called Aziraphale, projecting his voice towards Crowley’s bobbing head of dark red hair. The concern didn’t hit him until he heard the note of urgency in Crowley’s voice.

“I think…I think I might’ve swum out too far,” came the distant voice, slightly panicked. “How long have we been in here?”

Aziraphale glanced back at the dock, at the small pile of clothes they’d left there. He’d left his watch in the pocket of his trousers. “I don’t know, but I think we should get out,” he said. “Can you swim to me?”

“’M not sure,” Crowley responded. “All of a sudden I feel a little wiped out.”

Aziraphale tried not to panic. Where he was, his feet could still touch the bottom of the lake. Crowley wasn’t so far away that he wouldn’t be able to swim to meet him, but Aziraphale worried that he wouldn’t be capable of pulling Crowley back to the shore, especially if Crowley was beginning to develop hypothermia.

“Try to swim calmly towards me,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath as he began to paddle in Crowley’s direction. “I’ll lead you back to the dock.”

After a few strokes, he could tell that he’d no longer be able to touch the bottom if he tried to put his feet down. There was nothing to hold onto, but he kept his arms moving as he and Crowley closed the distance between them.

“I’ll swim you in,” Aziraphale reassured him when he’d reached Crowley. He looked shaken, but nodded and continued to move slowly through the water alongside Aziraphale.

Mercifully, the shore was not so far away as it had seemed. They soon could clamber out of the water on foot, reaching for the two towels Aziraphale had brought along.

“Are you OK?” Aziraphale said, wrapping the towel around Crowley’s shivering frame as tightly as possible. He lowered Crowley down to the dock, rubbing his back and arms in an attempt to warm him up.

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked, gulping for air. He leaned into Aziraphale, staring up at him with unbridled emotion. “I love you,” he whispered.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley firmly into his arms so that he was covered with Aziraphale’s towel as well. “I love you, too,” he said, planting a kiss on top of Crowley’s damp head. He'd never been so bone-chillingly cold, yet so heartwarmingly fond of someone at the same time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this fic, rebecca404 made a really cool cover for it that you can reblog on tumblr [here.](https://goodomensficrecommendations.tumblr.com/post/622202276773265408/bliss-poolside-anonymous-good-omens-tv) Thank you!


End file.
